


Where Virtues Live on Ice

by marysuofyay



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M, preggo robots, probably babies at some point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-21 02:40:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9528254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marysuofyay/pseuds/marysuofyay
Summary: The need for new troops has been a problem with the whole '4 million year war' and 'planet in ruins' thing. The Decepticons figure out a way, however, to create fresh, new bodies.Unfortunately, it requires minibots and mad science to make it work.(IE: "What if robots making robot babies is NOT the natural way of things?")





	1. Finding

**Author's Note:**

> Author notes: …Hi. So I gave a try at this plot idea a couple months ago, got maybe two chapters in, and then my brain went “NO. EVERYTHING IS WRONG. NO.”
> 
> Then talked to some buddies. One of which suggested a different set of minibots for the plot idea.
> 
> So. Yup. Here we are now. I only have about a 20% chance of what I’m doing.
> 
> Please review, comments fuel me. EVEN NEGATIVE ONES. Fuuueeell meeeee

**Where Virtues Live on Ice**

 

It had been, initially, the distress signal that had taken them by surprise.

The command center of the ARK took an average of six distress signals on what would be considered a ‘fairly good cycle’. Outposts all along the planet from a myriad of both human and Autobot constructs alike tended to be targeted by Decepticons for any number of reasons. Often, it was inconsequential; it wasn’t unheard of for a few bored seekers to cause mayhem or for a drunk Combaticon to simply trespass in to human settlements for nothing more than a “drive”.

It was, however, taken more or less glibly until a rash of attempted lurings caused by _false_ distress signals that certain precautions had been put in to place. Previously, the Autobot distress beacon, although distinctly its own from the humans, were still generically ‘Autobot’. After several catastrophic fights from the false, Decepticon-made calls, Every Autobot on Earth had been given their own identification signal; should one of their own send out a call for help, the ARK would know exactly _which_ Autobot it was from and where they were.

So, when the late afternoon call came in, there had been a moment hesitation caused by nothing more than surprise.

The light flashing next to the monitor caught Blasters’ attention. It took several seconds of side-eyeing it before the red mech finally turned to the Autobot who _should_ have been answering the call. “Hound? M’mech, what’s happenin’?”

Hound, on his end, was gaping at the monitor as if it were suddenly possessed. “It’s from… Gears.”

“What?!” _That_ caught Blasters’ attention; the chair underneath him whirled with an audible screech. Then, internal calls were being called up. “M’callin’ Prime.”

“It could be a trap…” Hound offered meekly, still visibly shocked. “I mean, he’s been missing for _two years_.”

By the time Hound’s words has run their course, Blaster had already pinged Optimus and received an alarmed response. “Sometimes, m’mech, miracles happen.”

//////////

There were, of course, those with concerns.

_“The odds of still being functional after this length of time is abysmally low.”_ Prowl had said for what must have been the third time from a direct line; as a matter of safety, Officers were never clustered together on a ship heading for a distress call. Now was no different, but Prowl kept in constant contact. _“There has been no attempt by the Decepticons to negotiate a hostage exchange since his disappearance.”_

_“Doesn’t necessarily mean he ain’t still kickin’.”_ Jazz’s response likely came from over Prowl’s shoulder; there was slight echo and static to tip off the distance. _“Can always hope, mech.”_

The shuttle heading for the distress beacon held almost no top ranking Autobots; the possibility of a trap was far too great of a risk. Instead, following protocol, those that answered the call and any volunteers were dispatched instead.

Blaster and Hound sat across from each other; the former looked thoughtful, the latter pensive. Ratchet – refusing multiple suggestions not to risk his CMO self on a potential ambush – had come along on the rare chance that the missing minibot was, in fact, alive.

The shuttle landed on what amounted to the ‘middle of nowhere’, according to Jazz. Stretches of green grass hit piled masses of stone and, not too distantly, mountains. The nearest human settlements were not for miles, although there were roads nearby connecting the towns.

“Nebraska?” Blaster frowned as they left the shuttle. “Not the ‘Cons kinda jive at all...”

“The beacon’s still on. No signs of incoming Decepticons.” Prowl murmured over the line.

Hound, meanwhile, had taken several steps in to the grass that barely reached the top of his feet. This sort of area – organically wild, yet hanging with a sense of peacefulness caused by nothing more than the planet itself – was the exact sort of scenery that he loved. Very few Autobots understood what he saw in this sort of place.

However, in what was almost his element, Hound noticed something was off. “Someone’s been here.”

“What?” It got Ratchet’s attention. “Where?”

Hound looked over the grass; Cybertronian feet tended to leave larger, deeper footprints than anything that naturally lived on the planet. Dents in the soil, particularly with squashed grass, was a clear giveaway. “Here!” Then, the green mech began to walk; he nearly ran to follow the trail.

Behind him, Blaster and Ratchet both carried their weapons out, immediately wary; although Hound was armed, he often didn’t have the reflexes needed for a sudden attack.

The mountains were some miles away, but stone pillars and fallen remnants of another eon lay scattered about. It was, Hound thought, precisely the kind of area on Earth known to have caves. It wasn’t long until he found one; a literal hole in the ground where the trail of footprints ended.

It was far too small for any decent sized Cybertronian to fit in to. However, it looked just large enough for the right frame minibot to pack himself in. Inside the small hole looked dark and uninhabited; still, he took the guess. “Gears?”

It took a moment. A few seemingly long seconds before small, dim blue optics lit up from inside. The shaky exhale blew some dust out. If it was Gears, he was _frightened._

“It’s okay.” Hound found himself talking as if to a skittish animal; one hand was stretched out. “Blaster and Ratchet are here, too.” He made a slow glance to the pair, lingering slightly behind as they were. “It’s okay.”

The shaky exhales were the only sound for a few seconds. Then, slowly, with the painful sound of stiff joints moving after long inactivity – had Gears been in the hole since he set off the distress call? It had been _hours_ –, Gears pulled himself out. The minibot was coated in a fine mist of dust and dirt, but it didn’t cover everything.

Both Hound and Blaster gasped aloud; Ratchet rushed forward, pulling a medical kit from his side. “What did they _do_ to you?!”

A series of scars ran along the small mech from his throat to his array; a long, straight line intersected along his torso with numerous long, thin slices nearly stretched to his back. None of them looked as if they had healed, yet didn’t appear to be leaking any fluids, either.

“We have to get him to the ARK.” Ratchet appeared visibly shaken as he took hold of one of Gears’ arms; it set both Hound and Blaster on edge. “I’ve only seen this on _autopsy cadavers_ –“

“No!” Gears, looking as if he was in some shock, managed to pull his arm back. “No, the others –“ Suddenly, the stunned expression shifted to horror. “How long was I in there?!”

_“Did he just say ‘others’?”_ Came Jazz, distantly, from the line.

Hound looked at the minibot with worry. “Almost… Two years.”

“Not _that_!” Gears huffed; for a moment, he looked just as they remembered him. It quickly vanished. “In the stupid cave! How long since I called for help?!”

Ratchet frowned. “A little under four hours.”

Pale blue optics widened. “There might be time…” Gears looked to Ratchet, every inch of alarmed. “They might not’ve noticed I’m gone yet! The others are still in there!”

“Who?” Ratchet gaped.

“Beachcomber and Powerglide!” Gears sputtered for a moment. “They’re still _in there_! We need to get them out or the ‘Cons’ll move them!”

“They’re alive, too?!” Blaster yelped. “They’ve been missing almost as long as you!”

“And they’re gonna get _moved_ if we _don’t move_!” Gears had already begun to jog, although slowly; exhaustion visibly weighed him down. Why he didn’t shift in to vehicle mode was a mystery. “Pit, if they’re already gone…!” His tone hitched and bordered on a sob. It was an alarming noise.

_“Backup is on standby.”_ That was Prowl. _“Go with him. You’re under supervision.”_

They went.

//////////

How Gears remembered the way was a mystery in itself; the rocks and boulders in the area were nigh identical, sporting a dusty, pale yellow color that somehow melted in to the grass. There were a few caves scattered around, but they were ignored as the minibot made a rush, at first, on foot. Eventually, exhaustion forced him to stop and, from there, he rode on Hound’s vehicle mode, pointing the direction to go with a frenzied hurry.

Eventually, Gears stopped them at the entrance to yet another cave. This one was substantially larger at the mouth than the rest that they had passed by; visibly large enough for a Cybertronian of nearly any size to walk right in. A few birds milled about before spotting them and flying away.

The grass by the opening of the cave was absolutely trampled.

Gears nearly collapsed as he leapt to the ground. Hound shifted forms immediately in his wake and was just as quick to help the minibot back to his feet. As soon as Gears was back up, he brushed Hound off and then… Hesitated.

Once again, he looked frightened; he glanced back to the three other Autobots before making shaking steps towards the cave.

Behind him, weapons were pulled out and armed with a soft series of clicks.

From the entrance of the cave, nothing looked out of the ordinary. Twenty steps in, everything changed; the natural rock-formed walls gave way to metal and technology that was clearly Cybertronian. Smooth metal lit under bold lights that were currently beyond human ability to reproduce. The path led downwards in only a slight incline; hallways opened up, but Gears ignored them, steadfastly heading straight down the line. A strange, foul smell permeated the air, getting stronger the further down they went.

It took a long and tense number of minutes before they made it to what seemed to be the end; the hall opened to a reinforced door that would have likely been difficult to get through had it not been wide open. A seeker lied unconscious on the floor covered in energon; beyond that were the cells.

The harsh lighting of electrified bars released an off-putting blue glow to the dozens upon dozens of empty cells.

“Gears!” A voice not heard in years gasped from the side.

To the left – and all three potential rescuers whirled at the call – were the only two occupied cells. One against the wall in a corner, another next to it; a third did not have the cell bars activated.

The sight of the prisoners caused a myriad of reactions; Blaster pulled back in shock, Ratchet openly gaped and Hound dropped his gun entirely.

Powerglide was barely propped up on the floor, leaning back against a large berth – far too large for comfortable minibot use – behind him that took up most of the cell. His frame was at least double the size that it should be; what looked like a stiff, translucent mesh pouch erupted grotesquely from his frame, lit faintly by the glow of his own spark and internal mechanics. The horrific addition to his frame came from a series of lines along his frame; the same scars Gears possessed, only opened apart at the seams. The red flyer stared blankly, perhaps from shock.

The cell next door held a stunned, but visibly delighted Beachcomber. His own frame was similarly scarred and altered, but the mesh on his own body was much smaller, a bare patch between slightly separated plating. It was perhaps the only reason he was on his feet, standing at the edge of the bars. “Gears, you did it!” Openly, he wept, optics flashing overbright, grinning as he did.

“Not yet, I didn’t!” Gears’ tone almost matched his familiar grouchy demeanor, but the sheer terror on his face did not. He looked to the three horrified Autobots behind him. “I couldn’t get their cells open! The ‘Cons are going to be back soon! If they get here before we get out, I… I don’t…” Suddenly, he looked ready to faint.

“Easy, m’mech.” Blaster set a gentle hand on the minibots’ shoulder; Gears stiffened. “We’ll all get outta here.”

“Damn straight.” With that, Ratchet lifted his blaster and shot at a pair of small control panels set between the cells. They both exploded loudly; after a moment, the electrified bars on the cells behind them flickered off. “Blaster, carry Gears. Hound, get Powerglide. Prowl, get the medbay set up!” There was a pause. “…Prowl? Slag, something’s blocking the call.”

Beachcomber had already begun to run to Ratchet before he finished speaking; the medic gently lifted the ecstatic minibot in his arms.

“Probably why th’ little mechs couldn’t call for help…” Blaster mused, horrified. Gears didn’t resist Blaster lifting him in his arms. “Hot slag.”

Hound’s expression of horror didn’t shift as he picked up a placid, unblinking Powerglide. He did, however, sniff at the air. “What’s that _smell_?”

“We’ll figure it out later!” Ratchet barked. “Let’s get the slag out of here.”

The escape, from there, was swift.


	2. Asleep

There were, of course, protocols involved for the aftermath of a rescue or hostage trade. It was agreed upon by the higher-ups that any questions on what sort of suffering may have transpired was generally not a good idea; digging up any potential trauma, assuming there was any, was – according to Jazz – a ‘dick move’. Asking what information the Decepticons may have been given, however, was fair game.

Beyond Ratchet’s initially stunned exclamation, there were no questions aimed at the three minibots once they were safely in the shuttle. It was likely all for the best, as Powerglide slipped in to stasis as soon as they were on board.

“He’s fine.” Beachcomber had insisted. “It’s… The fainting’s normal at this stage.” He physically winced as he said it, but didn’t elaborate.

Not too long after that, both of the other two minibots were similarly unconscious, but under better conditions; Gears and Beachcomber held on to each other, both shaking to some degree, before simply falling asleep next to Powerglide.

The three remaining Autobots shared disturbed looks.

“They’re all out, Prowl.” Ratchet told the line, holding a basic medical scanner over the three minibots. He frowned at it deeply before giving it a harsh slap on its’ side. “And I think it’s time to replace these things. These readings don’t even make sense…”

“Does any of this, though?” Blaster mused aloud.

Hound gave a wry smirk that lasted for only a moment. Then, his optics narrowed in confusion; the stench from the underground prison still lingered, though at a much lesser degree. It clung to the minibots, though considering how long they had been missing and likely subsequently held there, he had to admit that he shouldn’t be too surprised.

With the lessened stench, however, pinpointing what it was became easier.

“I think I know what that smell is.” Hound half whispered to Blaster, partially not to wake the minibots and partially from surprise at his own revelation. “It’s… It smells like the rooms next to a bar.”

“Like th’ rooms next to a bar?” Blaster went over the words. “So, vomit, frame leaks and interface.” It was said half in jest; it wasn’t until the words were out his mouth that it hit him.

Both Blaster and Hound shared a now horrified look.

“What in hot slag happened to these mechs?” Blaster sputtered, shaking his head.

/////////////////

The three minibots were still in stasis when they arrived at the ARK. There was no attempt to wake them from it; instead, they were quietly snuck in to the medical bay, past the optics of the rest of the Autobots. There were secondary routes just for this occasion, made for the privacy of post-rescue operations.

From there, Ratchet placed them in what was commonly called the ‘back room’; a wide area that had once been an observation deck, but had been heavily damaged when the ARK crash landed. A wall had been destroyed but windows had replaced it that now looked out over a clear blue sky and an expanse of the mountain below. It was used, since then, as a rehabilitation room for flyers, who were known to become agitated when locked indoors. It also worked wonders for anyone held in a cell for an extended period of time.

Both of those items were met and there were more than enough room for three gurneys.

However, the sheer mystery of what had _happened_ to these Autobots and _why_ they had these bizarre additions to their bodies had to be ascertained.

Powerglide had the largest abnormality; he was sent, still unconscious, in to a body scanner.

Portable, miniature scanners typically did their jobs – glitches notwithstanding – but being able to fully scan a frame still had a function once in a while. Each one was large enough to accommodate most frame sizes; Powerglide barely took half of it, engulfed in the half-tube metal.

From there, Ratchet stared at the screens. They flickered in full color slices of every part of the minibots’ frame; brain module readouts and clear imagery of internal organs alike. Once they cleared on what, exactly, was the cause of the intense growth, Ratchet simply stared at it for what felt to him to be a very, very long amount of time. Further sliced imagery were open, stared at, and repeated for some time. Ratchet found himself in a loop of staring at the exact same thing.

It was mostly disbelief. That blended with the shock of _what_ he was seeing.

Then, he opened a direct comm line. “Perceptor, Wheeljack, could you both get down to the deep scanner room?”

If the request alone wasn’t enough to gain their curiosity, his quiet, perfectly polite tone probably was. It was only a few minutes before the two arrived, almost at the same time.

“What’s up, Ra –“ Wheeljack stopped three steps in to the room and stared at the scanner bed. “…Is that… Powerglide?! What?! _How?!_ He’s been gone for…”

“Two years, I know.” Ratchet sighed.

“I’m going to assume that there is a security concern involved, or the entire ARK would have been aware of this by now.” Perceptor managed not to sound surprised, but his expression said differently. “What appears to be the issue?”

“Could you just… Look at this and tell me what you see?” Ratchet made a vague gesture at the screens with a hand.

Perceptor and Wheeljack looked to each other briefly before doing as instructed. They each stared from either side of the CMO.

There was, at first, a stretch of stunned silence.

“… _What?!_ ” Was the first response from Wheeljack. He clutched the edge of one screen with a hand in animated shock.

“Is that a _protoform_?! A sparkling?!” Perceptor boggled, jaw agape.

“Just, _what_?!” Wheeljack sputtered for a second time.

“Could either of you confirm it’s an actual growing protoform and not, say, an explosive or parasite made to _look_ like a protoform?” Ratchet sighed.

“…Oh.” Wheeljack visibly relaxed once he realized why he had been called in; a distraction! “Uh…” He peered closer at the screens.

“It… Passes all the visual inspections of a fourth quarter protoform in progress.” Perceptor gave a shrug coated in disbelief. “Exactly as we would have seen from Vector Sigma eons ago, merely… In… A body.”

“It’s not an explosive.” Wheeljack’s brows furrowed, glancing from screen to screen. “That… Hot slag, Ratchet, _how_ is this a thing right now?! It’s a protoform growin’ _inside_ a mech?! I… It… What?!”

“I don’t know.” Ratchet hated those words and hated it more to say them. “I don’t know.”

/////////////////

“What do you mean ‘you don’t know’?” Prime stared at Ratchet with a mix of shock and extreme bafflement; it was an expression the medic couldn’t recall ever seeing on his face before.

“I mean that… _This_ …” A hand was waved at the holoscreen image of Powerglide’s internal organs – of the protoform forming inside. “…Is entirely unprecedented.” At this late a stage of hardening, the soon-to-be-sparkling was nearly in its’ first shape. A sharply pointed, multifaceted diamond. Back on Cybertron, when the natural course of things had gone on, there had been worse things to start out life as. “There are no records of anything even remotely like this. The closest we have are organic parallels, which is where I theorize Megatron may have gotten the idea.”

“It _is_ really similar.” Jazz agreed, staring at the static image in wonder. His expression, for now, was one of only two so far that lacked any sort of disgust or horror. “Th’ humans form their young like this, too.”

“The fact that we are not, in fact, organic in any way, shape or form is an issue, here.” Prowl didn’t even look at the image for more than a few seconds; as the only other mech that didn’t look on with disgust, he also didn’t appear to care at all beyond the technical. One day, Ratchet mused, he would have to find out if that was a coping mechanism or not. “We’ve had multiple hostage situations and prisoner trade agreements since these three went missing. What differs them from the rest?”

“They’re minibots.” Bumblebee, on his end, had been visibly shaken since learning first of his friends’ survival and then of their current conditions. Now, he was tense. “That’s the only thing, isn’t it?”

“The question, then…” Prowl frowned ever so slightly. “Is _why_ does that matter?”

A deep breath left Ratchet’s frame; it was more to steady his patience than anything else. “I’ve already wrung in Perceptor, First Aid, Jetfire and Wheeljack to study this.” At several surprised looks, he sat up in defense. “Not study _them_! Primus, from medical samples, not… Their actual bodies!”

“Hey…” Jazz looked to Prowl. “Didn’t we get one of th’ minis back from a prisoner exchange a few months back?”

“Cliffjumper.” Bumblebee piped up.

Prowl’s frown deepened as he thought. “It was a standard scenario. We had three, they had three. There were no difficulties, casualties or severe injuries.”

“Ah, so now we have a lead.” The shock was starting to wear off from the Prime’s face. “Ratchet, you and your team will continue to look in to this with every available resource. In the mean time, news that they’re still alive will be made public, but not their current… Condition… As of yet.” A pause. “I honestly don’t know how we would explain it.”

“I’ll work on a speech for that.” Jazz smirked. “Make it so it makes sense.” Now, several sets of optics turned to him. A deep breath was taken. “I promise it won’t have th’ words ‘pregnant’ or ‘babies’ in it.”

“Make sure that it doesn’t.” Prowl’s optics narrowed; the higher ranking officers knew each other far too well.

Jazz flashed him a grin.

“Thank you.” Optimus shook his head. “Dismissed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews fuel my tiny brain. :D
> 
> LATE EDIT: Because I apparently can't remember that Skyfire is not Jetfire's name.


	3. Sedated

_Waiting for Gears to wake up had felt like an eternity._

_The Constructions had been surprisingly careful with the red and blue minibot when they had brought him back, setting the unconscious and shockingly_ flat _frame on the berth. Both the lack of consciousness and the missing growth on his abdomen were immediate causes for alarm. Gears had, somewhere near six hours beforehand, been yelling in what he had described as ‘sharp pains’ before collapsing in to a fetal position. He was still screaming before Hook has burst in to his cell to carry him off. Gears hadn’t even struggled, though the obvious pain he had been in might have had something to do with it._

_Now, though, Gears was back; he almost looked like his old self; well, physically. There were scars on his frame where the metal had separated – what Beachcomber could see through the glow of the cell bars, anyway – that had somehow either pulled or had been pushed back in to place. It would have been fascinating under any other circumstance; if it wasn’t happening to them, like this, in this way._

_Powerglide had been pacing around his cell since Gears had been brought back – or as well as he_ could _pace with the size of his frame. He was, for some reason, somewhat larger than both Gears and Beachcomber had wound up. He had also been grumbling incoherently every once in a while, but refused to clarify what he was saying when Beachcomber had dared to ask. This was not new behavior._

_It was really a matter of time, Beachcomber thought, until Powerglide simply lost his mind. He had been deeply worried about it for some months, now; a flyer, pent up in a cage like this? They hardly had any distractions to help cope with it all beyond talking to each other, and that only went so far. Ages ago, had heard stories from other mechs about what happened to flyers in captivity and the only things to distract them from the_ growing _were all related to pain and degradation. Hardly helpful to combat psychosis, that._

_When Gears finally did come to, it was with a heavy gasp and the sharp lighting of his optics. He might have been having a nightmare; they all had been, though, since they had been here._

_“Gears!” Beachcomber had been sitting down with his face nearly pressed against the electric bars – they weren’t actually metal, as far as he could tell, but lines of blue beams – for the past couple of hours. What else was there to do? The grumbling from Powerglide stopped now that Gears was up; he assumed the winged minibot was also looking on from the next cell over, but didn’t turn to check._

_Slowly, Gears sat up. The lights in his optics were slightly dulled as he looked over himself; his movements were disturbingly slow as he traced the scars on his body with his own hand._

_He might have been under a sedative, Beachcomber thought. “Gears…?”_

_“It was a protoform.” The words were slurred; absolutely a sedative, then._

_“Wha?” Powerglide sputtered from the corner cell. “What d’you mean a protoform?”_

_Gears wasn’t looking at them. Instead, expression not much more beyond a flat effect, was aimed downwards over himself. “Thought it was a parasite. A bug, an experiment of… Something.” They had been theorizing just that for months; their captors had never told them anything, though, no matter how much they asked. A deep, shaky breath rattled the air. “They took out a_ sparkling. _A real protoform.”_

_There was a long beat of silence. Beachcomber stood up and turned to look to Powerglide; the flyer was looking from his own protruding abdomen to Gears and back again with newfound shock._

_Beachcomber found himself in a haze. A_ protoform? _All this time, trying to get questions answered from the ever silent guard or the Decepticons that came and went, and they’ve been housing growing protoforms?!_ Inside of their bodies?!

_Well, at least one of their theories was right, but it was hardly a comfort; this was an experiment. It had to be, wasn’t it? To see if this was possible?_

_Protoforms. Sparklings. There was a protoform growing inside of him_ right now.

How?!

_A sharp, hysterical laugh erupted from Gears; Beachcomber turned back at the sound, mind still cloudy and reeling._

_“We’re making_ sparklings _!” Gears laughed again with the same crazed pitch. “They turned us in to… In to portable_ Vector Sigmas! _Primus, it was an actual newspark!”_

_The wild laughter went on._

_Nothing had been quite the same after that._

/////////////

As it was for the past couple of years, Beachcomber came to slowly. It was as much a manner of what comfort he could claim as well as a measure of security; pretending he was still out, even for a few seconds, could give him valuable information on what was going on.

The first thing he realized was that he was on a berth. Typically not a good sign; usually, it meant someone had put him there. Had he fainted or been knocked out? The former was more likely; the larger he got, the more exhausted he became. A Decepticon coming in for a round usually didn’t bother waiting for their Autobot toy to wake up again.

Curiously, though, he didn’t hear any noise. No voices, no scraping of a body moving against itself, and no one was on the berth with him. Maybe they had already left? Or Hook had put him on the berth. Sometimes, he wondered about that mech; he was the only Constructicon to _not_ abuse them outside of the medical and had the odd habit of putting them on the berth whenever he found any of them sleeping on the floor.

There was something else, though; something felt… Off. The berth wasn’t quite right. He had grown very accustomed to what it felt like, and this wasn’t quite it. It felt… Smaller.

What had happened? What was the last thing he remembered? Beachcomber couldn’t quite drag it out. Powerglide had been sitting on the floor in silence for a few hours because Gears had –

_Gears!_

Beachcomber lit his optics at sudden recollection. He sat up just as quickly, looking around in a frenzy. Oh, look at that, the berth _was_ smaller than the one in the cell…

Then, Beachcomber noticed the window.

Well, technically it was the wall. The entire wall was one, large window that overlooked a downwards slope of a mountain. Great hills of green grass lay underneath, with a tree or two of jutting mounts of green scattered about. The sky above was dark with the evening, but there were _stars_.

At once, Beachcomber wept, vents hiccupping and optics flashing overbright. Hands moved to cover his mouth from the sheer joy of seeing stars again; it had been _years_.

A gasp distracted him; Beachcomber looked slightly to the right, to find Gears – dear _wonderful_ Gears – standing in front to the window with his arms crossed. He was only slightly turned in his direction; he must have been looking out of the window.

“Gears!” Beachcomber stumbled off of the berth; it was a small one made for minibot size and was very unlike the gigantic thing they had been forced to rest on in the cells. As of now, Beachcomber wasn’t quite that large yet, the mesh on his body only stretched a fraction of where it would end up; it was easy to rush to Gears and wrap him in a hug. “You did it!”

Gears was shaking; he didn’t look nearly as happy as Beachcomber had expected. “You’re not… Mad?”

“What?” That was not what he had expected; Beachcomber stared at Gears in shock. “Mad? Why… Why would I be upset? You got us out!”

There was a few seconds of silence. Gears was still shaking as he pulled himself away from the embrace. Beachcomber recognized the unsure, frightened hesitation on his fellow minibot; Gears was trying to articulate his thoughts. When he finally did, it started with a shaky breath. “I left you both in there…”

Oh. Is that what this was about? Had Gears been waiting for who knows how long, looking out the window, stressing about _this_? “But you came back.” Beachcomber smiled, trying to reassure his friend. “You _had_ to get out, our comms were blocked in the cells. You know that. There wasn’t any other way.”

“But I _left_ you both in there!” Gears’ voice rose in his distress. “If I had been even a little bit late, they would’ve noticed I was gone and –“

“But none of that happened.” Beachcomber kept his voice calm and low. Even and temperate; Gears was so very upset when he had no reason to be. He had, as far as Beachcomber was concerned, acted heroically when he had managed to escape. “None of that happened. You got out, you got help, and you came back. You _saved_ us, Gears.” A quick look around was enough to spot Powerglide on a berth of his own. The flyer was unconscious; this did not surprise him. “You saved both me and Powerglide and now we’re _back home_. You’re a _hero_.”

Honestly, he couldn’t tell if it was working; Gears shaking had slowed down, but the past few years of experience had taught him that Gears was very, very good at putting up a front. He had the habit of trying to be ‘tough’ when there wasn’t really a reason for it.

Before Gears could find some new excuse as to why he should be blamed for an eventually that never came to pass, Beachcomber hugged his friend again. Gears stiffened for a moment – relatable, really, oh Primus how relatable it was – before relaxing in to the embrace.

////////////////

There was, with absolutely no surprise to anyone involved, chaos. The announcement that the three minibots had been found alive but injured – though the specific wounds were not divulged – was met with adulation. At least, for a little while. Then, it was a mob.

Naturally, the rest of the minibots wanted to see their friends and wanted to see them _now_. Bumblebee had been forced to field his own, reminding them that the three were injured, would need time and would need privacy. He couldn’t, of course, divulge the exact nature of the injuries. That – again, with no surprise to anyone involved – spread to rumors and gossip, most of which was horrifying but, naturally, nowhere near the truth.

After a few hours, Bumblebee physically collapsed on an empty gurney in the medical bay from sheer exhaustion; the minibots, as close as they all were, were incredibly demanding. He had spent the past few hours telling them that, no, they could not see them yet; yes, they could send messages through a courier; no, they were not going to sneak in through the vents to get to the medical bay and to please stop asking.

As an officer, though, he was not only allowed to visit the newly rescued – and to flop over on a medical berth in the process –, but it was actually made mandatory to do so.

“Are we sure about this?” Bumblebee moaned to no one in particular. Half slumped on the gurney as he was – feet almost touching the floor thanks to his smaller size but face on the empty foam mattress, arms spread akimbo in a dramatic display – the words came out muffled.

Nearby, Ratchet stared with a quirked eyebrow. Bumblebee couldn’t see it, of course, but he was absolutely certain of the expression. “You can postpone it for a while if Optimus lets it. Powerglide is still out of it, anyway.”

A half moan, half sigh came from the berth. Bumblebee was _not_ looking forward to this. It would actually be the very first post-rescue interrogation he had ever been told to perform. Usually, medical staff or easy-going Jazz would be the ones to do it. However, the fact that all three rescued were minibots landed himself in this mess.

“You can’t make it any worse for them, you know.” A small sigh let itself loose from Ratchet. How did he always know exactly what he was worried about? What _everyone_ that came in to the medical bay was always worried about? “It’s a few questions. Uncomfortable, yes, but you can’t make it any worse than things already are.”

As far as pep talks went, it wasn’t a terrible one.

Slowly, Bumblebee pulled himself off the berth. He could admit he was nervous; typically, he was there to offer a shoulder only after the medical checkups and questions. Handling post traumatic stress was different when someone else took the brunt of it.

The door to the ‘back room’ was, as the name implied, in the back of the medical bay. The walk to said door felt like a journey in itself.

The door slid open when he neared it. Bumblebee rushed himself inside before he could change his mind; it slid shut behind him.

There was an immediate gasp; Bumblebee saw, briefly, both Gears and Beachcomber staring at him before the latter pounced him and pulled him in to a hug.

The affection somehow made this all worse; it felt like a betrayal to come in here to greet them for the first time in two years – after who knows what horrible tortures happened to them – and then to have to ask invasive questions. It was, Bumblebee knew, entirely necessary, but it still felt… Wrong.

“We were wondering when someone was gonna check on us.” Gears groused and, save for the horrific scars, was almost exactly as Bumblebee remembered him. Blue arms were crossed over a red chest and a small, somewhat sad smirk was splayed over his face.

That expression tugged at Bumblebee’s spark.

Beachcomber, on the other hand, was grinning broadly, clinging on to Bumblebee’s arm the way he used to when he tried to convince him to go to a zoo, or a nature preserve, or a petting farm. If it hadn’t been for that – pouch growing on Beachcomber’s stomach, he could almost forget…

A shudder passed through a yellow frame; Beachcomber’s smile dropped instantly.

“Not here just to check on us, huh?” Gears sighed.

A pit of guilt was starting to form in Bumblebee’s chest; pretending this was just a how-do-you-do hadn’t even occurred to him. “Afraid not.”

“We knew there’d be questions, Gears.” Beachcomber pulled away from Bumblebee; he rubbed at his own upper arms, nervousness apparent.

“I’m sorry.” Bumblebee truly meant it as he looked from one formerly missing friend to another. “There are things we need on the record.” A glance was sent between Beachcomber and Gears before landing between them; Powerglide’s berth lay deeper in the room. Bumblebee frowned. Ratchet _had_ mentioned the red jetformer was ‘still out of it’. “Did Ratchet give Powerglide extra sedatives?”

“What?” Gears turned back to look at the unconscious flier. “…Oh. That. No. They were drugging his fuel.” The blue and red minibot turned to Beachcomber. “Last time he tried to stop taking it, it took, what, a week?”

“A week sounds about right, until he was at speaking levels again.” Beachcomber nodded, a worried look on his face. He looked to a horrified Bumblebee. “Powerglide… He tried to electrocute himself on the cell doors. We don’t know if he was trying to kill himself or trying to kill the… The protoform.”

“Probably both.” Gears shrugged. “Can’t blame him. Can’t say I didn’t think about doing the same thing.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

“After that, the energon in his cell had some kind of drug in it. Made him hazy and far off. He stayed in recharge a lot.” Beachcomber sighed. “We… _Were_ able to get him our fuel from between the bars, and he took that for a while. No one tried to stop us.” A small, confused frown crossed his face as he said the words. “But after a couple of weeks after he was clear-headed, Powerglide went back to the drugged cubes. On his own.”

A deep shudder passed through Bumblebee’s frame. Neither Beachcomber nor Gears seemed upset with Powerglide in any way; they didn’t even look disappointed. Worried, yes, but they acted as if attempted suicide and then willingly taking a drug was just part and parcel to everything that had happened.

“…Primus.” How else was he supposed to respond to that? Bumblebee shook his head to try and clear the horrified shock. “Primus, uhm… I’m so sorry…”

“It’s going to be okay, now, though.” A warm smile spread along Beachcomber’s face; it was almost the way he used to look. “We’re home, now.” A blue hand reached out to hold on to Bumblebee’s and gave it a squeeze. “You have questions, right? Let’s get on with that.”

For a moment, Bumblebee simply stared at Beachcomber with surprise; a quick sideways glance at Gears did not show the same. Instead, Gears was smiling ever so slightly as well, only at Beachcomber. “…Oh. Yeah, the questions. Let’s… Lets’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally have no idea if what I'm writing is even coherent or not. Also, future chapters may be slow; the semester has begun and all my professors are insane.

**Author's Note:**

> Author notes:
> 
> *helpless shrug*


End file.
